He terrifies me. Not just the violence, but the way he cares, the way he watches me like he’s the only thing standing between me and the end of the world.
Sometimes I wish he would stop. Sometimes I wish he would never let go.
I hated what he did today. When he pulled me behind him, I felt… safe? Is that the right word? Maybe it’s just the only thing left.
I try to convince myself that it’s only gratitude, only adrenaline, only the twisted bond that comes from surviving together. But there are other words, messier ones:want,longing,ache. Words I only let myself write in the dark.
Evening falls slow and blue. I wander the halls, restless, notebook pressed to my chest, craving movement but not ready to face anyone, least of all him. The light spills from the gym, a warm glow on polished floors. I don’t mean to stop, but I do.
The sound is rhythmic, almost soothing: the steady thud of fists against the heavy bag, the shudder of the chain overhead.
I peer through the half-open door. Lukyan is there, alone. He’s stripped to a tank top, sweat sheening over his arms and chest, every muscle in his back and shoulders flexing with each punch. He’s a storm of focus and strength, violence honed into something precise and—God help me—beautiful.
I stand in the doorway, transfixed. The way he moves is different than the cold precision I saw at the market. Here, it’s release. Here, it’s honesty. He isn’t performing for anyone, isn’t trying to scare or impress. He’s fighting something invisible, something only he can see.
He turns, catching me in the mirror. Our eyes lock, and the punch bag swings, forgotten. I want to look away, to keep walking, to let him have this moment alone.
Instead, I linger, my hand tightening on the notebook, pretending to be interested in something on the far wall.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.
He doesn’t answer at first. He just watches me, chest rising and falling, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to read the truth in my face.
I try to move past, but he’s quicker, closing the distance with three silent steps. He grabs my wrist—not hard, not even tight, just enough to stop me from slipping away. The contact is electric, all the unspoken tension from the market, the kitchen, the night before burning between us.
My notebook falls from my hand, landing on the mats with a dull thud. He looks down at it, then at me, and something dangerous flickers in his gaze.
“Stay,” he murmurs, voice raw with effort and something I don’t want to name.
He tugs me forward, guiding me until I’m standing right in the center of his reach. His arms go to either side, hands braced on the bag behind me, caging me in. There’s no force, just certainty—the knowledge that I could walk away if I wanted, but that neither of us wants me to.
I feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the salt of his sweat and the clean scent of his skin. He’s close enough that I see every bead of moisture on his neck, every scar and shadow.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
His voice drops, softer, his forehead almost brushing mine. “Why are you watching me?”
I don’t have an answer. Or maybe I have too many. “I don’t know,” I say, the words barely a whisper. “Maybe I wanted to see if you were all right.”
His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile. “You’re not afraid?”
I meet his gaze. “Should I be?”
His hand lifts, brushing my cheek, rough knuckles tracing down to my jaw. “No. Not of me. Never of me.”
The promise in his voice shakes something loose inside me. The fear, the longing, the confusion—everything dissolves, leaving only this strange gravity, this pull that has nothing to do with violence and everything to do with the way he looks at me.
He leans in, mouth hovering just over mine. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me—here, in the bright, open gym, sweat still cooling on his skin. He doesn’t. He waits, breath mingling with mine, letting the tension coil tighter.
I lift my hand, laying it flat against his chest, feeling the wild thud of his heart beneath my palm. His eyes flutter closed, just for a heartbeat, as if he’s memorizing the feeling.
Then his hand slides to my waist, and I’m pressed back against the bag, the world narrowing to the cage of his arms and the rough warmth of his skin.
Neither of us moves, neither of us speaks. I realize, trembling, that I don’t want to break the moment.
I let myself admit the truth, silent and certain as a heartbeat: I don’t want to escape. Not from this. Not from him.
I close my eyes and lean in, just enough that our lips almost touch—almost, but not quite—waiting for him to close the distance, waiting for him to claim what we both want.
